As Good As It Gets?

by Fiona Gibson

  Rosie mutters something whilst delving into the schoolbag at her feet.

  ‘Yes, I think it’s definitely baked,’ I add.

  ‘Mum,’ she snaps, straightening up, ‘could you stop going on about the crisp? It’s not that interesting, okay?’

  ‘Oh, I just thought …’ Stung by her sharpness, I tail off and place my phone on the table. A few years ago, she’d have been thrilled by such an outstanding example of potato engineering. I’d probably have let her take a day off school so she could see it for real.

  ‘I wasn’t talking about crisps, Mum,’ she adds coldly.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t hear you, Rosie, because you were actually speaking into your bag, and your voice must’ve been absorbed by the sweaty old T-shirt and gym shorts you’ve been carting about for weeks …’ I head into the utility room and start unloading the washing machine, just to put some distance between us. I’d never imagined that the teenage stage would be quite like this. Sure, I had an idea that it was tricky, and that no one would want to come to the zoo with me anymore, or draw funny felt-tipped faces on boiled eggs – but this grumpy, sullen thing, and the see-saw moods? I’d assumed that was a cliché – a lazy sitcom view of teenhood. But now I see it’s just the way things are.

  Back in the kitchen, I dump the laundry basket on the worktop. ‘So what were you talking about?’ I ask, in as pleasant a voice as I can muster.

  ‘I said, I want to meet my real dad.’

  My heart seems to crash against my ribs. I lick my dry lips and grip the rim of the basket. ‘Really? Are you sure?’

  She juts out her chin and nods.

  ‘Well, um … okay …’ Thank God Ollie’s getting ready for school upstairs and Will’s in the garden as usual, digging up spuds. ‘I, er, thought you’d want to at some point,’ I add, trying to read her expression. For some reason, it’s defiant.

  ‘Yeah. Well, I do.’ We look at each other awkwardly. In fact, it is okay – ish. Of course she should meet him, if that’s what she wants. She is entitled to, and I have never planned to stand in her way. However, I am also aware that it’s not as simple as Rosie meeting Fraser for a coffee, and her coming back and saying, ‘That was nice, I liked him.’ And then getting on with the rest of her life.

  No, I’m fully aware that it’ll be … monumental.

  ‘So how will we get in touch with him?’ she asks, her tone still frosty, as if it’s my fault he has never once tried to find us, or sent her a note or a card. I can sort of understand that a nineteen-year-old boy might have a sudden panic attack over the thought of caring for a tiny, nappy-wearing thing that spits milk and screams in the night. I’d had to accept that he’d taken fright and run away, and that we were better off without him than if he’d stayed around, being useless. Yet I’ve never been able to understand, as the years have passed, why Fraser has never been curious enough to want to enquire about his child, let alone get to know her. He was a smart young man. Even after I’d got married, he could have found some way to track us down.

  ‘I’ll think about it when I’m away, okay?’ I say carefully, as Ollie appears with his schoolbag slung low on his back. ‘Remember I’m staying over at Grandma and Grandpa’s tonight.’

  ‘Think about what?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing, hon. Just find your shoes.’

  ‘You going to that food festival thing today?’ he wants to know.

  ‘Yes, darling. So I won’t see you till tomorrow …’

  ‘Oh, cool.’ Separation anxiety is a truly terrible thing.

  Through our kitchen window I glimpse Will chatting to Tricia over the fence. He breaks away and marches in. ‘God, that woman,’ he mutters. ‘Going on about someone creeping about in our garden the other night. I didn’t hear anything, did you?’

  I shake my head vehemently. ‘No.’

  ‘Some woman screaming and swearing, she said …’

  ‘Where?’ I feign astonishment.

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. In our borders, she thought. But everything’s fine. Nothing’s trampled …’

  I shrug and feign a baffled face, worrying that I’m over-egging it a little, then kiss my family goodbye, grab my overnight bag and virtually pelt for the door.

  *

  I know it’s wrong, and that I should probably have sat down and talked the whole Fraser business over with Rosie and Will. I mean, civilisation wouldn’t collapse just because I happened to arrive late at an exhibition centre filled with purveyors of crisps, nuts and other delicacies of the savoury variety. Saul would have called for Ollie as usual and they’d have pottered off to school together. And we’d have decided that Rosie could take the morning off school and discussed it – calmly, levelly, like sensible people. That’s what we should be doing right now. But I can’t face it yet, because I need to figure out how to find the right Fraser Johnson (maybe he is the undertaker in St Ives?) and, crucially, how he’ll react when I contact him.

  To think, that’s what Rosie was trying to say while I was prattling on about the world’s biggest crisp.

  In fact, the crisp is pretty impressive, as I discover when I arrive a couple of hours later at the cavernous hangar-style venue in Bournemouth. ‘Rupert made it at home,’ Dee tells me. ‘Baked it in sections and welded it together with some kind of edible glue.’ She laughs. ‘In fact, I’m not sure it is actually edible.’ However, we will be offering plenty of samples: crisp omelettes, dips and even cookies, incorporating crushed crisps, will be concocted in our demonstration kitchen.

  ‘This is looking fantastic,’ Rupert enthuses, arriving with Marcelle, his rather terse-looking wife, who’s been tasked with transporting a tray of coffees to distribute among us. Meanwhile Rupert hands out brown woollen corsages for us to wear on the bibs of our Archie’s aprons (when I say corsages, I actually mean knitted crisps, knocked up by Rupert’s elderly aunt on the Isle of Skye).

  And so the show opens. With so many treats on offer – there are hundreds of stands – the hall is soon bustling with visitors. That’s the thing with freebies, I’ve learned from previous shows: they’re grabbed, frenziedly, as if people are scared they’re about to run out. The day flashes by in a blur of cooking and chatting and doing my utmost to be a sparkling Archie’s ambassador. While Rosie’s announcement keeps looming into my mind, luckily I don’t have time to dwell upon it.

  ‘You’ve all been amazing,’ Rupert announces as the show draws to a close, presenting each of us with a bottle of champagne.

  By the time I leave, I’m feeling rather crisp-like myself (a little fragile, and over-salted, due to copious snacking throughout the day). It feels pleasantly quiet, taking the coast road towards my parents’ place; they live in a wind-ravaged cottage a couple of miles out of town. I’m grateful, too, to be staying away overnight. Rosie issue aside, perhaps Will and I just need a little break from each other. Absence, heart fonder, and all that. Well, let’s hope so. When my parents suggested I spent the night at their place, I jumped at the chance. Maybe Sabrina will pop round to help Will to polish his cobnuts. She looked so pretty yesterday – all tanned arms and jutty-out collarbones – although, to be fair, Will has given no indication that he fancies her. She’s very sweet, and I’m just being paranoid and awful.

  I pass the turn-off to the village where Will and I once spent the night in a grand country hotel with stone lions at the gate. It had vast, wooded grounds with a fishing lake, and the most beautiful bedroom I’d ever seen. My parents had treated us, having offered to look after Rosie and Ollie for the night. It was my 30th birthday, and we were refused entry to the hotel restaurant, with Will’s Greenspace Heritage T-shirt failing to impress the haughty maître d’. We’d laughed about how country places can be so much stuffier than London restaurants, and decided we could happily live without ‘dining’ (as it was referred to) in such a formal restaurant. And so we nipped out to the local shop, and assembled a makeshift picnic of bread, cheese, olives and wine, which we consumed, giggling, in our enormous hotel be
d, then proceeded to spend all night ravaging each other. We even missed breakfast.

  That’s what I call being romantic – not spending vast amounts on fancy dinners or enormous bouquets of roses. The memory causes an actual ache, somewhere around the heart region. Would we ever eat messy snacks and drink wine in a hotel bed now, if we got the chance? I doubt it. Will would be concerned about crumbs. Anyway, I don’t really care about that. I just want to feel close to him again.

  Of course, there is one, glaringly obvious possibility: that Will’s disillusioned with me, with us, with life in general. I’ve certainly aged significantly since that night in the hotel. There are lines and saggy bits and everything’s gone sort of … fuzzy. My bottom and boobs are less pert, and I seem to be losing definition on my face, as if someone has altered the focus settings. Boo, the make-up girl, certainly recoiled on seeing me close up: but then, she’s used to working with models, not ordinary women with pores and thread veins plainly on display. Surely Will doesn’t notice my imperfections – and anyway, I’m not hideous. Rupert is always complimenting my appearance. But I’m not especially concerned about how he views me. I mean, I’m not married to my boss.

  I’m probably turning into a sex-obsessive. I am greedy for affection and, dammit, the occasional orgasm wouldn’t go amiss. It’s like the crisp effect. If you’re not remotely worried about your weight, then you’re probably content with a polite little handful. But as soon as you try to deny yourself, all you can think about is scoffing an entire ‘sharing bag’, meant for at least two people – which in turn seems so gluttonous that you think, what the hell, and guzzle even more. Liza insists she doesn’t care about meeting anyone serious and says she doesn’t miss sex, even though she has plenty of admirers as far as I can make out. There’s always some yoga buddy of hers asking her for a drink, or to a gig: Liza goes to actual gigs, involving acoustic guitars and singer-songwriter types that I’ve never heard of. However, she reckons it’s been so long since she’s slept with anyone, the urge has died away.

  The opposite seems to be happening with me. Ollie once informed me that sea sponges are asexual – ‘It means they can’t be bothered to do it, even if they meet a really good-looking sea sponge!’ – but I can’t imagine reaching that stage, ever. Although, in some ways, it would be a blessed relief.

  Anyway, time to banish such tawdry thoughts as I pull up outside my parents’ whitewashed house. On spotting my car, Mum rushes out to greet me. I feel my spirits lifting immediately, because here at Withersea Cottage I am neither a wife nor a mum, but just Charlotte which, right now, seems delightfully undemanding.

  Mum and I hug tightly, and I tell her she looks fantastic, which is true. She favours a vintage look – casual bits and pieces which could result in a mishmash but work wonderfully with her long, wavy caramel hair and expressive face, bare apart from a dab of sheer lipstick. ‘Where’s Dad?’ I ask as we head into the chalky-white living room. It’s dotted with seasidey things: tide-worn pebbles, a wooden dish of shells, and the model boats Dad makes from driftwood.

  ‘He’s out sailing with a couple of friends,’ Mum replies, ‘but he shouldn’t be long now. Dinner’s almost ready.’

  ‘Oh, heaven,’ I enthuse, inhaling the delicious aromas which are wafting through from the kitchen. Mum, like Will, is an excellent cook, although in her case she regards a thick, buttery crust as an essential component to virtually every meal, even at the height of summer. The aroma of melty puff pastry hangs tantalisingly in the air. Then Dad arrives, hair unkempt and face ruddy from the elements, and wraps me in a hug. ‘Lovely to see you, Charlotte. How’s that gang of yours?’

  ‘Great,’ I say, filling them in on our news. ‘Rosie’s been taken on by a model agency,’ I add, as the three of us sit down to attack Mum’s steak and kidney pie.

  ‘Oh, I bet she’s so excited,’ Mum enthuses.

  ‘Well, Laurie – that’s her booker – warned her that they can never guarantee who’ll take off, but we’ll see what happens when she breaks up for the summer. There’s only a few days left of school.’

  ‘You will all come down to see us, won’t you?’ Mum asks, and I know it’s Will she wants to see, as much as me and the kids. She dotes on my husband: kind, handsome, infinitely capable Will. Fraser, whom she and Dad regard – understandably – as lower in the food chain than a grub worm, hasn’t been mentioned for years.

  ‘Of course we will,’ I reply. ‘It’ll be lovely to all spend some time together.’

  ‘Not booked a holiday this year?’ she asks, a trace of sympathy in her eyes.

  ‘Erm, we’re a bit tight for cash at the moment,’ I admit.

  Dad hesitates. ‘How’s, you know, the job hunting—’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll find something soon, Dad.’

  ‘Of course he will,’ Mum adds, with absolute confidence. ‘He’s probably just taking time to be sure he makes the right decision.’

  I nod, thinking: hmm, possibly. But who knows? Who knows anything anymore? We’re clearing up after dinner when my mobile rings. ‘Mum, guess what!’ It’s Rosie. She sounds happy, and my heart soars with relief.

  ‘Hi, sweetheart, everything okay?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve got a job!’

  I glance at Mum who’s regarding me with interest. ‘You mean a modelling job?’

  ‘Yes! What else would it be?’

  ‘But I didn’t know you’d been on any go-sees …’

  ‘I went today, straight after school. Well, I had to come out a bit early and miss last period, history … Dad said it was okay …’

  ‘Yes, of course it was,’ I say quickly, relieved that he appears to have stepped in and made a decision when, usually, every minuscule detail of Rosie and Ollie’s lives is left to me to manage. More than anything, though, I’m delighted to hear her cheerful voice again.

  ‘It was great,’ she continues breathlessly. ‘They took some shots and said I was just right and told me I’d got it, there and then …’

  ‘Oh, that’s amazing!’ I turn to Mum and mouth: Rosie’s got her first modelling job! Mum grins and clasps her hands together, as excited as a small child.

  ‘So who’s it for?’ I ask as Dad hands me one of his ‘special coffees’: a potent Irish kind, swirled with cream and laced with whisky, a mere zillion calories a pop.

  ‘Oh, er … some fashion place. Italian. Laurie says they’re really high profile and once they like a girl, they use her over and over again. Like, you become their girl …’

  I pause. ‘You’re sure they’re reputable, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, ’course they are! Laurie said.’

  ‘But you don’t seem sure who it’s for—’

  ‘Mum,’ she splutters, ‘I’m not a child. Can’t you just be happy for me?’

  ‘I am happy,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m completely overjoyed for you …’

  ‘It’s on Monday,’ she cuts in, ‘and I know what you’re going to say.’

  So I’m that predictable, am I? Although my hackles are rising, I’m trying to retain a sunny demeanour. I don’t want to fall out with my daughter on the phone. ‘Listen,’ I say, sensing a vein throbbing in my neck, ‘it is a school day, but as you said, it’s almost the end of term …’

  ‘Great, so I can do it?’

  ‘Of course you can.’ I sip my coffee. Mum is fussing around the living room, straightening things that don’t need straightening, while Dad is occupying his favourite armchair and browsing through a sailing magazine.

  Tell her well done, he mouths, looking up.

  I smile. ‘Listen,’ I add, ‘Grandma and Grandpa are really happy for you and so am I.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ she says in a small voice. We finish the call, and Mum perches on the sofa beside me.

  ‘Is everything … all right, love?’ she asks.

  I nod, about to brush off her concern, but the temptation to be honest for once is too great. ‘It’s just … Rosie’s at that age, you know.’ Mum nods understandingly
. ‘Or maybe it’s me,’ I continue, ‘or rather, my age, that’s the problem. Maybe I’m just a bit – you know. Feeling old. Not that there is a problem exactly. It’s just, we used to be so close, Rosie and me, and now, whatever we’re doing or talking about, it always ends up all spiky and bad tempered and sometimes …’ I shrug, sipping my deliciously boozy coffee, ‘I think I’d be better just keeping my mouth shut.’

  ‘No,’ Mum says firmly, ‘you must always talk to her. It’s so important.’

  ‘I know, Mum, and I do try – but it’s as if …’ I pause. ‘Maybe teenagers and their parents aren’t that compatible, at least for a while. For this bit. What’d be ideal, really, is for us to live on different floors of a huge house and only meet up when they needed us to hand over some cash, or make them something proper to eat …’

  Dad laughs kindly. ‘You’ve probably got a point there, love.’

  ‘I mean, Ollie’s fine,’ I add. ‘I’m not saying I favour him. Just that we can still talk without him implying that I’m a miserable fun-wrecker.’

  ‘You’re not!’ Mum exclaims. ‘You’re a wonderful mum. They’re both very lucky, you know.’

  I laugh dryly, relieved when she suggests I have a long soak in the bath after being on my feet all day. It’s lovely, being pampered a little, as if I am homecoming student. I’m only slightly put out that Will didn’t come to the phone, just to say hi, as I sink into a cloud of bubbles in my parents’ enormous, claw-footed bath. My long, hot soak has a drowsy-making effect, and by eleven I am relieved to head up to bed.

  It’s not my childhood bedroom. Mum and Dad are prone to wanderlust and have moved several times since I left home. But it’s so cosy and comforting that it could be. Huge, puffy duvet, lovely fat pillows and a sharp whiff of the sea: it’s perfect and, exhausted from the day’s events, I fall asleep instantly in the tiny room.